Forget Me Not
by the Unrequited Lover
Summary: {The Picture of Dorian Gray} AU- Dorian is alive and in the US during the 20s where he meets a flapper, Madison. Her life is completely altered...is it for the best?
1. The Running Girl

_Disclaimer: Dorian Gray belongs to Oscar Wilde, who belongs to… eh, Oscar Wilde. Lucky him, he gets to keep both the things in my disclaimer!_

_Author's note: This is slightly alternate-universe in that it's as though Dorian didn't try to kill his conscience. :pets him: For those who don't know, I adore Dorian Gray and his inventor, Oscar Wilde, because they are both so fascinating…and because Oscar is very, very talented. The other thing about this is that it's written in a very Sarrin-ish style, even though I try and I try to emulate the Wildean eloquence… The point of this is…well, I wanted to see an inside look on how Dorian dragged down his admirers…and of course, a look at the women. The only thing that made me sad about Wilde was how he treated his women characters, although they weren't bad at all…_

**…;';… **

**New York City, Mid-1920's**

The streets were her friend, and of course, her enemy. By day, she and her friends were outrageous, and the streets were like a sailboat that would carry them to wherever they were headed- the café, to gossip and to infuriate the others- and to dance clubs, to dance, of course. The street was paved with gold, and it would take her anywhere safely, humming jazz music as she went. But by night, the street was a menace, not paved at all, but a great black hole preparing to swallow her whole. She stepped out anyway, clutching her jacket closely to herself. It wasn't supposed to be that cold, but for some reason, it was cold out anyway. Her exposed knees were cold, she wished briefly that she wasn't in such a short cocktail skirt, but then again…no, she reminded herself firmly. We're women, not young girls. We fought for the freedom to dress like this…she giggled a bit, still feeling slightly dizzy from spinning around so much to the music. Taking a deep breath, she began to run. That was the best thing about those twenties' dresses; the running. They allowed for such freedom of movement.

She was running for a reason. She wanted to escape. Escape what, she didn't know. The things that, with powdered faces and rouged mouths and white, sharp teeth came after her when the moon was veiled and all was quite quiet. She knew she should really have been 'facing her fears', but courage was never one of her strongest points. She'd never felt any reason for it. There had been opportunities, but she wasted them on running as well. She'd wasted time on dancing like a dizzy little debutante in a cocktail dress and T-bar shoes. How her mother would have scolded…if she'd only been alive.

She ran so fast, her heels clopping like a horse and her cloche hat almost flying off her head, that it would have been impossible to stop…even if she had seen the stranger step out from the alleyway.

She gave a small gasp as she ran into him, catching a small glimpse of blue eyes widening in shock underneath the black hat he sported before they both toppled over with an "oof!" being the only noise she made.

She groaned as she sat up from the street, rubbing her head where it'd been hit, her hat on the ground. "Oh, my…" she breathed, looking about her. Her skirt was all rumpled and her pochette lay some few feet away from her. Pulling her fingers through her bobbed hair to free it from the flat, mess the hat had turned it into, she took a look at the stranger, who lay beside her. His head had obviously been hit much harder than hers, as he had been thrown to the ground more violently. She crawled over to him, her powdered knees skinned. Was he all right?

She looked at him, then bit her lower lip in anxiety. He had really hurt his head; there was a cut on his forehead and it was bleeding. His hat had fallen back and she reached past him to pick it up. His fine golden locks of hair spilled out onto the sidewalk around his head like a halo, and she guessed that, with his peculiar beauty, he could have been a half-god.

"Oh, great," she muttered under her breath. "I've killed him…" Of course, he wasn't really dead, but she worried. Sighing, she stood, picking up her pochette and cloche hat, sticking the latter onto her head. She glanced down at the young man. Oh, well. She'd just have to get him to her house until he wasn't feeling so out-of-things. She sat beside the curb to think about it. Maybe…she'd just take the bus?

-

-

-

-

-

"S-Sir?"

He seemed to stir. She couldn't be certain of it. She shook him gently and looked at his fair, troubled face, still apprehensive as to what had happened to him. Would he have hit his head hard enough to get amnesia? She really hoped not…the girl put her knuckles to her mouth gravely, thinking, her pallid eyelids shutting as she thought. There would be something terrible about having run into a young man she did not even know, but there would be something even worse if she killed him, or something. Life has a way of punishing those who commit wrongs, and what could be more wrong than harming youth? The man was young. He could not have been terribly older than her. She began to grow sick with fright and turned her attention back to him, wondering how he was doing. She really had thought he'd stirred. Could she be sure? No…she really hoped he was all right.

"S-Sir?" she began again. He moaned and jerked his head, his eyes fluttering madly from beneath his eyelids. His lips parted slightly and she touched him on the shoulder. She'd removed his black jacket and his hat had fallen off on the trek upstairs. She sat in a chair with a particularly plain build; most everything she owned was rather plain. It was buy what you could afford and that was all; besides, the modern woman's belongings were straightforward and didn't bother with all that frilly stuff. That was for women who wore corsets and such back in the nineteenth century. She noticed he didn't seem to be stirring, and she worriedly dabbed warm water over the wound in his head- the only blemish, he was extraordinary beauty- with a washcloth, then dipped it back in the bowl of water. She moved back to him, pressing the cloth gently onto his skin. He stirred a bit…

"Hmmm?" he murmured, frowning. His eyes opened slightly and once again, the blue was breathtaking. Of course, she noticed her breathlessness was due to the astounding forget-me-not colour better when she wasn't having her breath knocked out by force, then tumbling onto the pavement. And forget-me-not they were; she'd always remember him, and hoped he'd remember her…

"Sir, you were knocked unconscious." She fretted with an edge of the blanket momentarily.

"By whom?" the piercing stare was just that. Absolutely piercing.

"By- by me, sir."

"The running girl? Oh, yes, of course. It all comes back to me now," he said listlessly. "You're a bit young to be wearing all that makeup," he said, eyes pausing on her face with a careless grace that made her feel even more nervous.

"Oh, well," she said carefully, looking down at her fidgeting hands, "I'm- well, me and my- friends, we…we sort of get along like that…"

"A flapper," he interjected. "Ah, I thought as much."

Her cheeks burned, red with more than just rouge. He observed it silently, not caring. There seemed a sort of vague interest shadowed behind his eyes.

"Your name, Miss?" he asked, eyebrows only slightly raised. She looked up at him, feeling a bit- righteously, in her opinion, whatever that was worth- angry. Her face flushed as she replied, a bit hot-temperedly, "You care?"

He adjusted the buttons of his starched, white shirt- she'd removed his jacket- and said with a small sigh- "You think I wouldn't?"

She frowned, then looked down at her hands again, still pulling at the fabric. "Madison…Madison Evelyn Adams."

"Pretty name," he remarked, his clear gaze capturing hers and holding it calmly.

"And what's yours?" she asked.

He chuckled and shook his head. "Americans, they just can't appreciate the beauty of a small silence between introductions. They think everything must be bought and sold, and that anything worth buying and selling must be gotten at that very moment." He exhaled slowly, clearing unruffled by her fierce glare. "Very well, then, my own name is Dorian Gray."

She nodded slowly, then dropped the blanket corner and thrust out her hand to him. It was larger and squarer than the hands of most girls her age. Or most girls at all. "Nice to meet you, Dorian, and how do you do?" He looked at her hand briefly, then took it and shook it firmly. His grip was stronger than her own. "I do what I can, thank you, Miss -."

She shook her head. "Madison, thank you."

He shrugged. "Madison it is, then." He looked around. "Am I to remain imprisoned in this madhouse?"

She glanced in his general direction, then stood abruptly. "My room? Until you are ready to go, yes."

He looked up at her, not even phased by her seemingly loss of temper. "And where shall I go?"

"Your home, perhaps?"

"My home is in England, or perhaps France; I forget which. Besides, at this point it hardly matters. I have no intention of returning to the Continent just yet."

Her knees nearly gave way. "Well, why not?"

He looked at her, now mildly surprised. "Silly girl…Why would I leave there in order to simply return? Nothing has happened to me, nothing to tell _mes amies_- aside from being run over by a dizzy flapper, of course." He smiled benignly. "If a place is worth staying at, then one must stay there until it's not worth staying at any longer…"

"So you're going to stay at my house until you've grown sick of the sight of me?" she asked, a frown decorating her features. She did not understand his logic. It escaped her as water does a net.

He laughed, and instead of waiting around to question the young man further, she turned on her high heels and stormed out of her room and down the stairs to take some aspirin. There was absolutely no point in speaking to him, none at all. She didn't feel comfortable trying to talk to him, anyway. As she walked down the stairs, pulling her cloche hat off her head and dropping it beside the railing, scrunched up as it was, she thought about the odd turns her life had taken. Maybe she hadn't been running in the first place, away from imaginary foes, but who's to say those foes might not become reality?

She paused, hand over the gilt doorknob, looking up the stairway she'd just come down and towards the door that concealed her new visitor, a Mister Dorian Gray. Could he be a foe? She shook her head the moment the thought entered her head. Of course not. He was too fine for that, wasn't that why his looks were so charming?

**To be continued.**


	2. Apologising Properly

_Disclaimer: Dorian Gray belongs to Oscar Wilde, but Madison (Evelyn Adams was my great-grandmother's name, and she was a flapper in the 20's), Jess, Stephanie, Gracie, and all else are Sarrin's._

"I won it! I really did!" Gracie exclaimed. Stephanie whistled and Madison clapped enthusiastically. "I could've sworn Mark was about to drop, and Greg and Jen never seemed to stop, and I would have told Mark we could stop if I hadn't been so tired, but then Jen slumped to the floor and started snoring, and-" Gracie paused to take a breath. "We won it! Really!"

"I believe you, Grace," Stephanie laughed. "You aren't going to leave us two, now that you and Mark have all that money, are you?"

Gracie shook her head. "Of course not. Were using the money to pay for the house."

"The house?" Madison repeated, looking over at her friend. "What house?"

Gracie blushed and quickened her pace. "The one we're going to buy after we're married."

Stephanie stopped walking and started at the blonde agape. "Grace," she murmured, "You didn't tell us?"

"I planned to," Gracie said defensively, and reached back as though to gather her hair into a bun, but the short strands slipped through her fingers.

There was a small silence until Madison, uncomfortable and disquieted, said quietly, "Let's go out tonight and celebrate the wedding."

"Out?" repeated Stephanie, confused. "We're already out. That's why we're heading out to the café."

"To the speakeasy," Gracie said softly. It dawned on Stephanie and she grinned. "Oh," she said, laughing, "that was ridiculous of me."

"You're awfully forgetful today," Gracie remarked. Stephanie laughed harder. "Yeah, I couldn't sleep, so I worked on some crosswords," she admitted. Madison did not speak. She was still thinking of the young man with the wounded head back at her house. Stephanie and Gracie both notised her silence and called her on it. It was not like her to not talk. She enforced the idea among other people that flappers were young, dizzy girls who couldn't shut their mouths.

"Madison," Gracie said, "you're being awfully quiet. What happened? _I'm_ tired because I won a dance marathon, _Steph's_ tired because she stayed up doing mah-jongg or something-"

"Crosswords," interrupted the black girl stubbornly.

"-And you're tired _why_?"

Madison sighed and adjusted the cloche hat. It was a different one from that which she'd warn the previous night. "I was running back home and tan into someone," she said in a low voice.

Stephanie snorted. "And?"

"He fell over and hit his head on the pavement," Madison went on. "I couldn't leave him there, so I got him to my house."

Gracie looked worried. "What happened next?"

"Did he kiss you for saving him?" blurted Stephanie. Gracie glared at her. "She's the one who knocked him over in the first place, you twit," she hissed.

"He was all right," Madison finished, "but I was really worried. And no, I didn't kiss him. I don't even think I like him much." She thought bout how he'd laughed at her after she'd gotten frustrated over him.

"Why not?" Stephanie demanded to know.

Gracie looked very disapproving, but Stephanie did not notise.

"He wasn't very nice. And the way he talks…" Madison trailed off.

"Cusses much?" Gracie asked sympathetically.

"An accent," said Madison.

"Southern or Western?"

"He isn't American."

That caused Gracie to look at her sharply, then look away with an air of haughtiness. "Gracie," Madison said soothingly, "he's _British_. They were our Allies, remember?"

Stephanie poked Madison in the arm as they neared the café. "Is he cute?"

"For goodness' sake!" burst Gracie. "Is that all you care about!"

Stephanie looked sheepish, but Madison piped up, "Yes, he's pretty good-looking." Her thoughts went back to his golden hair and enchanting blue eyes. Yes, he was very handsome. Very beautiful. Very…bothersome.

Gracie looked highly affronted and it made Madison laugh. "You're beginning to sound like my grandmother," Stephanie said to Gracie.

Gracie raised her eyebrows and took out a tube of lipstick. "At least I don't look like her," she said after putting it on. A few people tittered as they walked past them, speaking in hushed voices about them being a disgrace.

"Don't bother with them," Stephanie said scornfully, watching them with eyes narrowed with distaste. "They're jealous of our _esprit_ and _joie de vivre_."

"Yeah," agreed Madison, and they walked up to the café. Although it was mostly for blacks, like Stephanie, Madison and Gracie went often. Other than the speakeasy, it was their favourite place to be. After all, where else would they hear great jazz music?

"Hey Gracie!" called someone from a few tables away as they entered. "I hear you and Mark won the dance marathon!"

"Jess!" Gracie called back, smiling, and the three flappers went over to her table, where she and her friends had reserved seats for them.

"You were in the band, weren't you, Steph?" asked Jess when they say. Stephanie smiled and nodded. Their families had been neighbors back in Tennessee before they moved to New York City. Jess, a black poet who wore her hair in braids rather than bobbed, like the other three did, turned to Madison, who was taking an aspirin.

"You sick, hon?" Jess asked, frowning in concern. "Maybe you shouldn't come to the speakeasy tonight."

"I'm fine," Madison said hurriedly. "Just banged my head against the pavement last night when I ran into a young man from Britain."

"Ran into?" Jess echoed, dark eyebrows arched. Madison nodded, and said "Literally," taking a sip of tea that had been set out.

Jess smiled, bemused. "Did you, now?"

"Well, he was knocked unconscious when _his_ head hit the pavement and so I got him to my house, where I thought he was dead, when he woke up and argued with me."

"Argued?"

"Well, maybe not argue, but he bothered me," Madison said truthfully. And he had. Maybe it had been his damned reluctance to offer up his name; maybe it had been his remark about Americans. Talk like that could have gotten the man lynched in some parts of the world.

"I see," said Jess, thinking. "What's he like? He young?"

"Young and cute," said Stephanie, smirking. "Madison says so."

"Does she, now?"

Madison, colouring slightly, nodded. Jess' smile widened.

"Did he know his way round?" she inquired, pouring herself another cup of tea.

"Didn't seem to," replied Madison.

"Why don't you show him round, then? We could invite him down to the speakeasy tonight. Take him dancing. He might even find himself a lady friend," Jess suggested, nudging Madison gently with her elbow. Her white teeth were showing in one of her slow, easy smiles.

"I don't-" Madison began, but Jess laughed and said, "Madison Evelyn Adams, if you nearly kill someone, the least you can do is apologise properly!"

The conversation went off topic from there, away from the young man with blue eyes, but Madison, quiet, did not. Her mind still thought about him. If she took him, could she trust him? She didn't doubt that her friends would like him, but…did she, Madison, want him around?

'Twas a pity she didn't have an answer.

**To be continued.**

**To all who reviewed:  
SilverFlover- Aww, thank you! And I hope for some updates from you as well… Metaphors are fun, but there aren't many in this chapter…TT  
****The End- Aspirin came out in 1899, so yes, there was aspirin in the 20's. **


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